ANNEX 

5 

672 


HENRY  ATKJN 


Tropical  Touches 


Tropical  Touches 

(Songs  from  South  America) 


By 

Randolph  Henry  Atkin 

Author  of 

'Ballads  of  a  Gringo",  "  Rio  Grande' 
and  other  Poems 


PUBLISHER 

H.    WILSON    HOYT 

736  WEST  181st  STREET 

NEW    YORK 

U.  S.  A. 


Copyright  1916 
Randolph  H.  AtHn 


All  rights  rtstrutd 


To  my  Gringo  Friends 
in  South  America 


2047166 


I've  tried  to  write  of  matters 

which  I've  pondered, 
Of  stories  I've  heard  told — 

of  men  I've  met. 
Of  distant  lands,  where  oft 

I've  lonely  wandered 
And  scenes  which  I've  beheld, 

ne'er  to  forget. 
I've  tried  to  tell  of  living 

as  I've  known  it, 
Nor  do  my  rhymes  abound 

in  polished  speech, 
Yet,  for  all  gringos,  though 

they  may  not  own  it, 
Past  mem'ries  they'll  recall  .  .  . 

a  lesson  teach. 
And  should  you  o'er  one  word 

of  mine  detain 
Then  has  this  work  of  love 
been  not  in  vain. 


CONTENTS. 

Adios    .     .    .    Mi    Amor  -                                     -          41 

Advice  -       -    -  47 

Bum,  The         -  -          78 

Coast,  The  44 

Call  of  the  South,  The  -                                              71 

Exiled  Gringo,  The          -  108 

Gringo,  The    -  -          27 

Gringo's  Lament,  The      -  99 

Gringo's  Homecoming,  The  -        116 

Have  You?  -           -               53 

My  Ideal          -  -           -         65 

My  Cubanita          -  74 

Memories         -  •-  •    ,      -    -                111 


CONTENTS— Continued 

Outcast,  The 

Prickly   Heat  61 

Panama    -  61 

Pet,  The  105 

Revenge,  The  31 

South  of  Panama      -  -          11 

Southern  Typhoon,  The  15 

Southland,  The  -         96 

Selections  from  Ballads  of  a  Gringo  -  125 

Valparaiso  Bay 

Wanderer's  Day,  The       -  50 

Woman 102 


SOUTH  OF  PANAMA. 


Do  you  know  those  infant  nations  lying  south 

of  Panama, 

That  dreary  Coast  of  stretching  scrub  and  sand, 
Have  you  felt  their  lure  upon  you,  breathed  the 

fever-ladened  air, 

Have  you  heard  them  call  and  tried  to  under- 
stand? 
Have  you  gripped  the  hand  they  proffer,  do  you 

know  the  life  they  offer? 
Tis  one  in  which  with  death  you  ever  spar, 
The  blazing  heat  that  blinds  you,  the  something 

that  binds  you 
To  those  small  republics  south  of  Panama. 


SOUTH  OF  PANAMA. 

Do  you  know  those  yellow  pampas  undulating 

to  the  skyline, 

Where  the  king  of  desolation  reigns  supreme, 
Have  you  heard  the  vultures   croaking  as  you 

staggered  forward  choking, 
And  watched  with  bloodshot  eyes  the  mirage 

gleam? 
Have  you  fell  to  madly  raving,  chewed  your  belt 

to  ease  your  craving, 

As  you  clear  recalled  that  rippling  brook  afar. 
And,   though   now   you're   back   in   clover,   long 

again  to  wander  over 
Those  sun-baked  countries  south  of  Panama? 

Do  you  know  those  dusty  cities  with  their  nar- 
row crooked  calles? 
Adobe  houses  dim  as  prison  cells, 
Those  open  market  places  thronged  with  black 

perspiring  faces, 

The  rotting  fruit  and  reeking  garlic  smells? 
Have  you  heard  the   burro1  wailing,   loud  the 

tropic  morn  assailing, 

And  clanging  bells  which  on  the  senses  jar, 
Then  known  that  hour  redeeming,  when  at  noon- 
day all  are  dreaming 
In  those  sunbathed  countries  south  of  Panama. 


1  Street 
1  Donkey 


12 


SOUTH   OF   PANAMA. 

Do    you    know    their    lovely    daughters,    those 

stately  senoritas, 

Who  with  a  perfect  grace  go  gliding  past, 
And  give  you  glances  fleeting  'till  your  pulses 

fast  are  beating, 

And  at  such  beauty  rare  you  stand  aghast  ? 
Have  you  heard  that  rippling  laughter?     Seen 

beneath  a  fringed  mantilla 
Two   flashing   eyes   which   pale   the   brightest 

star? 
Do  you  feel  a  lover's  yearning,  do  your  thoughts 

keep  oft  returning 
To  those  sunkissed  countries  south  of  Panama? 

Have   you    seen    those    tropic   'evens    when    the 

heated  earth's  aglowing 

And  clouds  are  lined  with  tints  of  ev'ry  hue? 
When  the  sun,  its  blood  pulsating,  lingers  not 

o'er  its  leavetaking, 

But  soon  'neath  old  Pacific  drops  from  view. 
Then  the  luna,  newly  risen,  palefaced,  from  her 

daily  prison, 

Looks  down  from  off  the  tow'ring  peaks  afar, 
And  brings  some  relaxation  to  the  gasping  popu- 
lation, 

Of    those    sun-scorched    countries    south    of 
Panama. 


13 


SOUTH  OF  PANAMA. 

Have  you  known  those  nights  of  splendour  when 

ten  thousand  stars  are  sparkling 
Like  fireflies  in  the  blackness  overhead, 
Watched  the  wavelets  inland  creeping,  and  the 

flames  of  phosphor  leaping 
Where  th'  changeful  sea  with  steadfast  shore 

is  wed? 
Have  you  .  .  .  turned  to  silent  wonder  .  .  .  seen 

the   Southern  Cross   appearing 
A  pendant  bright  beyond  the  harbour  bar  ? 
And,  through  dangers  dire  to  steer  you,  some- 
how felt  that  God  was  near  you 
In  those  sunsteeped  countries  south  of  Panama. 

I   have  roamed  their  rugged   seaboards,  ridden 

o'er  their  barren  pampas, 
I  have  trod  their  city  byeways,  drenched  in 

sweat, 
To  the  puma's   scream  I've  wakened,  by  their 

deadly  fevers  shakened, 

To  each  of  their  demands  I've  paid  my  debt. 
But  though  Fortune's  tide  has  borne  me  from 

that  land  of  stern  adventure 
To  a  country  where  the  joys  of  comfort  are, 
And  where  life  is  of  the  choicest  .  .  .  yet  I  hear 

the  luring  voices. 
Of  those  distant  countries  south  of  Panama. 


14 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 


Born  in  the  depths  of  darkness,  in  the  long  Ant- 
arctic night, 

Reared  in  the  mighty  cradle  of  a  vastness  vir- 
gin white, 
Piercing  the  clouds  that  bound  me  at  the  dawn 

of  a  long  sought  day, 

Sallying  forth  with  pent  up  wrath  to  speed  on 
my  frenzied  way. 


15 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

Driving  the   snows  before  me  over  the  barren 

plain, 
Heaving  them  high  to  the  glowering  sky  to  be 

dashed  to  the  earth  again, 
Stifling  the  lone  explorer  with  a  blast  of  my  chilly 

breath, 

Hurling  the  ice-bound  whaler  to  the  jaws  of  a 
waiting  death. 

Faster  and  ever  faster  'till  the  towering  moun- 
tains quake, 
Stronger    and    ever    stronger    'till    the    rising 

plateaux  shake, 

Nothing  but  desolation  as  far  as  the  eye  can  see, 
With   a   deaf'ning  roar   I   leave  the   shore   to 
spread  o'er  the  cringing  sea. 


16 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

Lashing  its  breast  in  my  fury  'till  it  shrinks  from 

my  tireless  hand, 
And  runs  for  the  rugged  shelter  of  the  far-off 

watching  land, 
Flies   like  a  timid  maiden   from   the   grip  of   a 

fancied  ghost, 

To  tear  itself  asunder  on  the  stern  unyielding 
coast. 

With  a  joyous  cry  I  soon  espy,  away  on  the  sky- 
line dim, 
The  graceful  form  of  a  speeding  barque  .  .  . 

toy  for  my  present  whim, 
Hearing  my  shout   triumphant,  inspired  by  the 

proffered  sport, 

She  swiftly  turns,  as  a  startled  deer,  and  makes 
for  the  nearest  port. 


17 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

One  rush  and  I  overtake  her,  she  shrinks  with  a 

dull  alarm, 
Then  heels  as  I  dash  her  from  me  with  a  sweep 

of  my  mighty  arm, 
Again,  and  I  clutch  her  to  me,  I  can  hear  her 

long-drawn  gasp, 

And  her  strong  ribs   loudly   crunching  'neath 
the  power  of  my  iron  grasp. 

Those  puny  human  mortals,  who  Nature's  anger 

brave, 
Now  cry  to  their  God  to  snatch  them  from  the 

brink  of  a  wat'ry  grave, 
But  I  rip  the  decks  asunder  with  a  final  shatt'ring 

blow, 

And  they  sink  with  the  ship  they  trusted  to 
the  claws  of  the  crabs  below. 


18 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

Onward  I  speed  'till  the  Andes  rear  up  each  hoary 

head, 
Clear  to  that  space  unending  where  only  the 

angels  tread, 
From  the  crest  of  their  glitt'ring  snowfields  a 

challenge  to  all  is  hurled, 

For  never  have   they   been   conquered,   those 
Kings  of  the  Western  World. 

Dashing  myself  against  them  I  tear  at  their  ram- 
parts old, 
They  answer  my  youthful  bowlings  with  the 

calm  of  an  age  untold, 
Stemmed    are    my    furious    onslaughts    by    the 

strength  of  their  bosoms  vast, 
On  those  snowbound  plains,  where  the  condor 
reigns,  I  meet  with  defeat  at  last. 


19 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

Thrown  from  that  rocky  stronghold  I  drop  to  the 

earth  below, 
To    skim    o'er    the    green    clad   valleys    where 

westbound  rivers  flow, 
Gone  is  the  lust  for  battle,  the  strength  of  my 

youth  is  spent 

Till    scarcely   the    supple    bambu    by   the    force 
of  my  blow  is  bent. 

I  suck  the  dew  from  the  pastures  new,  on  my 

lips  it  is  borne  away, 
To   kiss   the   flower   at   the   noonday   hour,   as 

it  droops  'neath  the  glare  of  day, 
To  stir  the  leaves  of  the  listless  trees    till  they 

nod  to  the  setting  sun, 

And  bring  relief  to  the  gasping  earth  'ere  the 
reign  of  the  moon's  begun. 


20 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

On  through  the  night  I  travel,  over  the  moonlit 

land, 
Crossing  the  silent  pampa,  ruffling  its  glist'ning 

sand, 
Stirring  the  lonely  campfire  till  I  see  by  its  ruddy 

glow 

Fresh  hope  arise  in  the  lost  one's  eyes  as  he 
harks  to  my  whimperings  low. 

For  a  moment  brief  he  sits  and  stares  .  .  .  out 

through  the  rising  smoke, 
His  thirst's  forgot  and  he  listens  not  to  the 

waiting  vultures'  croak, 
For   he   sees  again   a   dew-drenched   plain,   and 

hears  the  swishing  mill, 

And  his  haggard  face  for  the  briefest  space, 
with  joy  those  visions  fill. 


21 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

But  'ere  the  breath  of  another  wind  can  soothe 

his  fevered  head, 

His  spirit  bold  will  seek  the  fold  of  the  count- 
less unknown  dead, 
While,  served  by  him,  the  vultures  grim  their 

proffered  feast  will  gain 

And  his  bones  will  lie  'neath  a  blazing  sky,  a 
speck  on  the  stretching  plain. 

Over  the  festooned  jungle  I  speed  on  my  north- 
ern way, 
Waking  the  chatt'ring  monkey  as  the  roof  of 

his  home  I  sway, 
Rousing  the  shrieking  puma  to  be  joined  by  a 

thousand  more, 

Then  all  is  stilled  as  the  air  is  filled  with  a 
hungry  tiger's  roar. 


22 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

Quickly  the  dawn  of  a  tropic  morn  breaks  in  the 

garnished  East, 
Hid  from  the  glare  in  his  fetid  lair  slumbers 

the  prowling  beast, 
The  note  is  heard  of  an  early  bird,  the  deep  green 

foliage  shakes, 

With  the  rustling  sound  of  a  mighty  bound  the 
trembling  jungle  wakes. 

Upwards,  now  mounting  upwards   till  I  see  from 

a  mountain  crest, 
The  first  bright  ray  of  the  piping  day  bathing 

Caribbean's  breast, 
The  morning  star,  in  its  realm  afar,  melts  in  the 

burning  light, 

And  the  yawning  West,  as  it  springs  from  rest, 
swallows  the  conquered  night. 


23 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

Then  the  fairy  touch  of  a  gentle  breeze  ripples 

the  placid  sea, 
And  the  cadent  trill  of  a  gladsome  song  floats 

through  the  air  to  me, 
At  that  welcome  sound,  with  a  fleeting  bound, 

from  the  mountain  top  I  glide, 
For  over  the  sand  of  that  circling  strand  frolics 
my  northern  bride. 

One  fond  embrace,  then  off  we  race,  out  from  the 

tranquil  bay, 
Which  brightly  gleams  as  the   amber  beams 

over  its  bosom  play 
Back  one  more  to  the  fretful  shore  we  come  from 

our  joyous  flight, 

To  sing  a  tune  to  the  locked  lagoon,  ablaze  in 
the  shimmering  light. 


24 


THE  SOUTHERN  TYPHOON. 

But  my  heart's  on  fire  with  a  great  desire,  and  I 

long  of  that  fruit  to  taste, 
Which    ripens   best    in    the    perfumed   breast, 

snow-white  of  a  maiden  chaste. 
I  long  to  fly  from  the  watching  eye,  far  up  from 

the  land  and  sea, 

Till  hid  from  view  by  that  veil  of  blue,  through 
which  Death  alone  can  see. 

So  I  take  my  bride  in  my  eager  arms,  she  yields 

with  a  trembling  sigh, 
To  the  hills  and  plains  of  the  smiling  earth  I 

whisper  a  last  Goodbye, 
Then  up  I  soar  through  a  mighty  door,  which 

opes  in  the  clouds  above, 

To  a  bridal  home  in  the  sapphire  dome,  alone 
with  my  virgin  love. 


25 


THE  GRINGO. 


You'll  encounter  a  type  in  your  wanderings  far, 

From  storm-swept  Magellan  to  old  Panama, 
His  hide  is  like  leather,  his  soul  black  as  tar, 

And  in  Spanish  they  call  him  a  gringo. 

He's  grim  of  the  face,  yet  he's  soft  of  the  heart, 
From  the  store  of  adventure  full  claiming  his 

part, 

There  isn't  a  speck  on  the  southern  chart 
Untrod  by  the  foot  of  a  gringo. 

His  morals  are  not  what  you'd  find  in  a  saint, 
His  knowledge  of  Scripture's  decidedly  faint, 
But  of  fear  and  of  lying  he  bears  not  a  taint, 

And  he'll  stick  to  his  friends,  will  the 
gringo. 


27 


THE  GRINGO. 

He's  fond  of  the  ladies — got  sweethearts  galore, 

By  difference  in  color  he  places  no  store, 

But  never  forgets  'twas  a  woman  who  bore, 

That  man  now  matured  to  a  gringo. 

Being  thick  of  the  skin  you  may  poison  the  air, 
And  call  him  a  son  of — whate'er  you  may  care, 
But  smile  when  you  say  it,  or  if  not — beware ! 
He  reckons  life  cheap  does  the  gringo. 

His  manners  are  rough,  he's  a  beggar  to  drink, 
And  down  to  the  depths  of  the  wretched  may 

sink, 

But,  from  one  act  of  meanness  to  others  he'd 
shrink, 

He's  true  to  the  core  is  the  gringo. 


28 


THE  GRINGO. 

High  up  on  the  peaks  where  the  earth  stretches 

white, 
Far  down  on  the  plains,  where  the  sweat  blinds 

your  sight, 

Wherever  mankind  with  stern  Nature  must  fight, 
You'll  find  the  opponent  a  gringo. 

When  the  darkest  of  jungles  is  cleared  from  the 

ground, 
And     the     highest     of     mountains     eventually 

crowned, 

'Neath  the  oozing  black  slime,  or  the  snows  will 
be  found 

The  bones  of  a  wandering  gringo. 

He  carries  his  flag  to  the  ends  of  the  earth, 

He's  building  up  fame  for  the  land  of  his  birth, 
So  those  who  sit  snugly  at  home  by  the  hearth, 
Just  take  off  your  hats  to  the  gringo ! 


29 


THE  REVENGE. 


''Twas  told   to   me   by  the  camp  firelight, 

Where  the  ruddy  glow  is  shed, 
In  that  silent  hour  of  the  tropic  night, 

E'er  the  blackness  fades  o'erhead, 
And  the  sweltering  dawn,  with  a  gaping  yawn, 

Springs  up  from  its  jungle  bed. 


There  are  towns  I've  known,  from  the  Frozen 

Zone  to  the  rims  where  the  palm  trees  wave 
Some  as  gay  as  the  Great  White  Way,  or  sad  as 

a  pauper's  grave. 
From  Behring  Sound,  where  the  palefaced  ground 

lies  tight  in  the  frost-fiend's  hold. 
To  Chili's  strand,  where  the  burning  sand,   rolls 

back  like  a  sea  of  gold. 
But  the  strangest  spot  that  it's  been  my  lot  to 

strike  in  my  wanderings  far, 
Is  one  which  lies  'neath  southern  skies  .  .  .  that 

wide-famed  Panama. 


31 


THE   REVENGE. 

Twas  back  in  the  days  when  the  worldly  gaze 

was  fixed  on  that  distant  place, 
Men  drifted  there  from  God  knows  where,  each 

of  a  different  race. 
White    and    black,    yellow    and    brown,    Gentile, 

Hindu,  Jew. 
Cast    aside   by    the    human    tide  ...  a    jostling, 

motley  crew. 
Men  of  worth,  of  grit  and  birth,  honest  and  brave 

and  free, 
Mixed  with   the   scum   of   the  sodden   slum  .  .  . 

fruit  for  the  gallows  tree. 

Then,  after  the  men,  in  a  mighty  drove,  flocking 

the  women  came. 
To  share  the  fate  of  their  chosen  mate,  or  follow 

the  road  of  shame. 
Labour  was  dear  and  life  was  cheap,  parched  by 

the  fever's  breath, 
Men    staked    their    all    on    the    dice's    fall,    and 

laughed  at  the  call  of  death. 
Twas  there  'neath  the  blaze  of  a  blistering  sun, 

each  gringo  raised  a  thirst, 
And,  gone  the  day,  in  a  joint  cafe  gambled  and 

drank  and  cursed. 


32 


THE  REVENGE. 

The  only  law  that  we  ever  knew  was  that  of  the 

gun  and  knife. 
An  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  the  ancient 

rules  of  life. 
A  smashing  blow  or  a  flash  of  steel  as  the  insult 

deeply  stung, 
No  man  had  time,  in  that  deadly  clime,  for  a  long 

warfare  of  tongue. 
No  issues  left  to  the  phrasing  deft  of  a  claptrap 

in  your  pay, 
But  honour  won  and  justice  done  in  a  swift,  sure, 

manly  way. 

***** 
From  out  of  that  seeting  flotsam  there  rose  in 

his  giant  might 
A  leader  strong,  despising  wrong,  defender  of 

the  right. 
Shoulders  broad  and  tall  of  limb,  lithe  as  a  puma 

wild, 
Clear  of  mind,  a  will  of  steel,  and  the  heart  of  a 

simple  child. 
His  joy  and  pride  was  a  tender  bride,  famed  for 

her  beauty  rare, 
Whose    body    frail,    from    life's    fierce    gale,    he 

screened  with  a  wondrous  care. 


33 


THE  REVENGE. 

Now  silent  Dick  was  the  name  he  bore,  for  timid 

was  he  of  speech, 
But   his    deeds   did   show   what   he'd   have   you 

know,  his  life  what  he  wishrd  to  teach. 
The  bully  cringed  and  the  braggart  ceased  if  he 

hap'd  to  be  passing  by, 
As  his  voiced  was  heard  the  shirker  stirred,  and 

the  liar  ate  his  lie. 
Yet  the  'down-and-outs'  would  to  him  relate  sad 

tales  of  their  black  disgrace, 
And  he'd  help  them  climb  from  the  oozing  slime 

to  a  place  in  the  worldly  race. 


We    were    seated   one    night    in    the    lampglare 

bright  of  an  uptown  cabaret,, 
Where    the   gringos    came    with    their    throats 

aflame  at  the  end  of  the  sweltering  day. 
Maisie,  the  one  of  the  painted  face,  was  singing 

a  ragtime  song, 
While   the  thirsty  crew,  as  they  mellowed  up, 

were  shouting  the  chorus  strong. 
When  into  the  light,  from  the  blackened  night, 

out  of  the  swishing  rain, 
Staggering  wild,  came  Silent  Dick  .  .  .  with  the 

air  of  a  man  insane. 


34 


THE  REVENGE. 

Have  you  watched  the  eyes  of  a  raving  fool  as 

he  sits  in  his  padded  room? 
The  blanching  cheek  of  a  man  condemned  as  the 

stern  judge  seals  his  doom? 
The  quivering  lips  on  that  last  lone  night  as  he 

sits  in  his  prison  cell, 
The    anguished    look    of    a    strong-willed    man, 

suff'ring  the  pangs  of  hell? 
That   was   the    face    of   Silent    Dick  .  .  .  fell    a 

silence  deep  as  death, 
Not  a  reveller  stirred,  whilst  we  clearly  heard 

the  hiss  of  each  indrawn  breath. 

Then  the  silence  broke,  for  up  Dick  spoke  .  .  . 
his  voice  bore  the  mournful  knell, 

Of  a  spirit  cast  from  the  sunlit  vast  to  the  dark- 
est pit  of  hell, 

Of  one  who  wakes  from  a  blissful  dream  to  find 
his  illusions  flown, 

Drifting  apart,  with  an  aching  heart  .  .  .  facing 
the  world  alone. 

Of  one,  who  falls  from  the  peak  of  fame,  to  sink 
in  the  filth  and  mud, 

Robbed  of  all  that  he  cherished  most — home,  and 
the  girl  he  loved. 


35 


THE  REVENGE. 

For  among  the  list  of  those  'down-and-outs'  was 

one  of  a  swinish  breed, 
Whom  Dick  did  raise  from  mis'ry's  ways  in  the 

direst  hour  of  need, 
Polished  of  speech,  with  a  tongue  of  silk,  fair  as 

an  ancient  Greek, 
One  of  a  kind  you  oft'  will  find,  spoiler  of  women 

weak. 
Slimiest  snake  of  a  poisonous  brood,  seeking  that 

built  bower, 
To  gain  lust's  end,  betrayed  his  friend,  in  a  short 

unguarded  hour. 

***** 

The  jungle  dense  lay  deathly  tense  in  the  grip 

of  the  noonday  glare. 
The  prowling  brute,  tired  of  pursuit,  snored  loud 

in  its  fetid  lair. 
From  rolling  plain  to  the  jagged  peak,  where  the 

condor  reigns  supreme, 
Through  th'  swelt'ring  day  all  Nature  lay  in  a 

long  unbroken  dream. 
When   out   of   the    shade,   by   the    forest   made, 

where  lingers  twilight's  veil, 
Stumbled  a  weary,  trail-stained  pair, — a  man  and 

a  woman  frail. 


36 


THE  REVENGE. 

They  glanced  around  as  a  threat'ning  sound  came 

out  from  the  thicket  gloom, 
(Into  their  eyes  did  the  look  arise  of  those  who 

await  their  doom) 
The  tangled  shrub  was  brushed  aside,  and  into 

the  sunlit  space, 
Staggered  a  wild-eyed,  bush-torn  man,  haggard 

and  scarred  of  face. 
A  moment's  pause — then  the  jungle  hush  with 

the  yell  of  a  madman  rang, 
And,  swift  as  a  beast  to  the  bloody  feast,  at  the 

woman's  throat  he  sprang, 

His   calloused   hands   like   wrought   steel   bands 

around  her  neck  did  close, 
A    strangled   cry,    with    terror    filled,    from   her 

blanched   lips   arose ; 
One   snake-like  twist  of  his  gnarled  wrist  .  .  . 

a  woman's  piercing  shriek, 
And,  paid  sin's  toll,  her  tainted  soul  the  realms  of 

the  dead  did  seek, 
Then,   as   a  beast   which   is   roused  to   slay,   he 

turned  with  an  angry  roar, 
And    soon    with    ease,   down    to   his   knees,    the 

woman's  lover  bore. 


37 


THE  REVENGE. 

Drawing  a  rope  from  beneath  his  coat  the  strug- 
gling man  he  bound, 

Laughing  aloud,  as  his  rival  cowed,  whined  like 
a  beaten  hound. 

Then,  dragging  him  back  to  the  nearby  spot, 
where  the  corpse  of  the  woman  lay, 

He  lashed  him  close,  with  a  hempen  cord,  to  the 
breast  of  the  lifeless  clay. 

Scorning  the  cries  of  the  wretched  man,  roped 
to  the  staring  dead, 

With  a  fiendish  laugh  at  his  hellish  work,  into  the 
bush  he  fled. 

***** 

A  year  ago,  as  I  chance  to  know,  a  wandering 
gringo  found, 

Somewhere  back  on  a  lonely  track,  where  soli- 
tudes abound, 

A  mouldering  heap  of  bleached  remains,  and  plain 
to  his  startled  gaze, 

Circling  the  bones  was  a  hempen  cord,  rotting 
away  with  age. 

But  every  trace  of  their  sex  or  state  had  fast, 
long  since  decayed, 

Whilst,  in  and  out  of  the  grinning  skulls,  the 
green  backed  lizards  played. 


38 


THE  REVENGE. 

And,  crouched  that  night  by  his  camp  firelight, 
where  shadows  come  and  go, 

And  faces  dear  so  oft  appear  in  the  heart  of  the 
ruddy  glow, 

He  plainly  heard,  (and  I  take  his  word)  a  wom- 
an's piercing  cry, 

A  struggle  keen  .  .  .  then  the  pleading  tones  of 
a  man  who  is  doomed  to  die, 

A  taunting  laugh  ...  a  stillness  strange  .  .  . 
a  long  blood-curdling  yell, 

Then — silence  deep,  like  a  world  asleep,  on  the 
shuddering  jungle  fell. 


39 


ADIOS  .     .  MI  AMOR. 


The  last  lone  ray  of  the  swelt'ring  day 

Retires  from  the  gasping  land, 
The  paintings  rare  in  the  clouds  above, 

Are  veiled  by  a  stealthy  hand. 
From  over  the  sea  the  dipping  sun, 

Smiles  back  to  the  weeping  shore, 
Then  sinks  from  view  with  a  last  adieu : 
Adios  .  .  .  adios  ...  mi  amor ! 

'Tis  then  I  sit  by  that  'circling  beach, 

Alone  with  those  mem'ries  old, 
Where  the  fleeting  love  which  you  felt  for  me, 

On  that  fateful  eve  was  told. 
I  hear  again  with  returning  pain, 

Those  words  which  you  spoke  of  yore, 
That  trembling  sigh,  and  that  last  good-bye, 
Adios  .      .  adios  .      .  mi  amor! 


41 


ADIOS  ...  MI  AMOR. 

On  ...  on  I  dream   till  a  snow-white  beam 
Shines  down  through  the  gathering  night, 

And  the  still  lagoon,  by  the  nascent  moon, 
Is  bathed  with  a  silver  light. 

Then  it  seems  to  me  that  the  restless  sea, 
As  it  shrinks  from  the  weeping  shore, 

Is  whisp'ring  low,  in  a  voice  I  know 

Adios  .  .  .  adios  ...  mi  amor ! 

Yet  the  setting  sun  will  appear  again 

To  smile  on  the  joyful  land, 
And  the  ebbing  sea  will  return  to  kiss 

The  face  of  the  virgin  sand. 
But  my  Ideal,  like  the  trampled  flow'r, 

Will  rise  from  the  dust  no  more, 
The  past  is  dead  ...  all  hope  has  fled  .  .  . 
Adios  .  .  .  adios  ...  mi  amor ! 

As  the  lonely  tree  on  the  barren  plain 

But  heightens  the  dreariness, 
And  the  passing  bird  o'er  the  ocean's  breast 

But  deepens  the  loneliness ; 
So  the  mem'ry  clear  of  our  love-dream,  dear, 

Adds  to  Disillusion's  store. 
Ah !  to  forget  that  we  ever  met ! 

Adios  .      .  adios  .      .  mi  amor! 


42 


ADIOS  ...  MI  AMOR. 

Soon  fleeting  years  with  ruthless  hands 
Will  turn  these  hairs  to  white, 

Life's  dreary  day  will  pass  away, 
And  swift  will  fall  the  night; 

Till,  bending  low,  with  falt'ring  steps 
I'll  enter  Death's  dark  door, 

And,  sorrow  past,  find  Truth  at  last : 

Adios  .      .  adios  .      .  mi  amor ! 


43 


THE  COAST. 


Stretching  due  south  the  Equator 
Swept  by  a  mountainous  swell, 

Mixture  of  pampa  and  jungle, 
Where  gringos  and  centipedes  dwell, 

Cursed  by  all  manner  of  fevers, 
Hotter  and  dried  than  Hell 
Is  the  Coast. 

Seaports  where  life  is  a  burden 
Menaced  by  typhoid  and  stinks, 

Home  of  the  'down-and-the-outer', 
Of  bleary  beach-combers  and  'ginks', 

Where  the  only  diversions  for  gringos 
Are  loving,  and  gambling  and  drinks 
On  the  Coast. 


44 


THE  COAST. 

Streets  that  are  narrow  and  winding, 
Filled  with  a  garlicky  smell, 

Houses  of  'dobe  and  mortar, 
Windows  barred  up  like  a  cell. 

Eyes  which  are  flashing  behind  them, 
Helping  to  strengthen  the  spell 
Of  the  Coast. 

Days  when  the  mercury  rises 
To  ninety  and  nine  in  the  shade, 

Ev'nings  when  landscape  and  ocean, 
In  crimson  and  gold  are  arrayed. 

Nights  when  the  heavenly  ceiling 
With  glittering  Stardust's  inlaid 
On  the  Coast. 

Deserts  which  stretch  to  the  skyline, 
Where  glimmering  mirages  glow, 

Mountains  which  rise  to  the  vastness 
Crowned  with  a  halo  of  snow, 

Rivers  abounding  in  reptiles, 
Meandering  sluggish  and  slow 
To  the  Coast. 


45 


THE  COAST. 

Mosquitos  that  threaten  to  eat  you, 

Flies  which  you  slay  with  delight, 
Sandcrabs  which  come  out  to  greet  you, 

Dogs  that  attack  you  on  sight, 
Burros  that  wake  you  at  dawning, 

Fleas  which  disturb  you  at  night 
On  the  Coast. 

Paths  that  are  rearing  like  stairways 

Up  to  God's  heavenly  gates, 
Or  winding  through  death-laden  jungles, 

To  haunts  where  the  rattler  awaits, 
O'er  pampa  and  prairie,  where  exiles 

Are  sharing  the  direst  of  fates 
On  the  Coast. 

Only  a  year  since  I  left  it 

When  deeply  and  grimly  I  swore 
That  never  again  would  I  venture 

To  live  on  that  sweltering  shore, 
But  somehow  there's  something  that  calls  me, 

So  back  I  am  going  once  more 
To  the  Coast. 


46 


ADVICE. 


'Tis  a  cold  hard  world  as  you've  all  found  out, 
You  stand  on  your  feet  to  be  knocked  about, 
And  get  darn  all  if  you  start  to  shout, 

But  the  jeers  of  the  jostling  throng. 
Yet  there  are  times  in  this  ruthless  fight, 
(Though  most  of  us  think  that  Might  is  Right) 
When  the  bitterest  man  finds  some  delight 

In  helping  another  along. 

There  are  different  ways  of  helping  one, 
There's  the  rich,  who  think  it's  the  greatest  fun, 
And  visit  the  poor  of  a  sodden  slum 

In  a  stylish  motor  car, 
Who  head  the  list  of  a  charity  ball, 
And  from  the  housetops  loudly  call, 
That  the  wondrous  fact  may  be  known  by  all 

What  generous  folk  they  are. 


47 


ADVICE. 

Yet  I  wouldn't  give  two  hurrahs  in  hell 
For  those  who  must  of  their  helping  tell, 
Who  on  the  acts  of  their  kindness  dwell 

Expecting  a  neighbour's  praise. 
But  give  me  the  one  who  will  share  his  crust 
With  a  fellow-man  who  is  badly  'bust/ 
And  from  the  slime  and  the  choking  dust 

His  fallen  brother  raise. 

And  not  a  whisper  of  what  he's  done, 
Trying  the  thanks  of  the  world  to  shun, 
Treating  it  all  as  a  game  he's  won 

Where  his  partner  shares  the  gain. 
That  is  a  man  whom  you'd  call  a  friend, 
Who'd  stick  by  you  to  the  bitter  end, 
The  Wrong  oppose  and  the  Right  defend, 

The  cause  of  the  weak  maintain. 

***** 

Now  women  there  are  (and  I've  known  a  lot) 
Who  judge  man's  worth  by  the  purse  he's  got, 
But,  down  and  out,  he  is  soon  forgot 

And  placed  in  the  'has  been*  fold. 
Give  me  the  girl  whose  heart  is  true, 
Whose  side  you  seek  when  things  turn  blue, 
And,  come  what  may,  sticks  fast  by  you, 

She's  worth  her  weight  in  gold. 


48 


ADVICE. 

A  worthy  prize  in  the  game  of  life, 
A  jewel  rare  where  shams  are  rife, 
The  kind,  my  boy,  to  be  one's  wife, 

To  mother  a  future  home. 
The  others  are  pastes  of  the  cheapest  make. 
They  sparkle  awhile,  yet  prove  a  fake, 
With  hearts  as  cold  as  a  falling  flake, 

The  good  wine's  tasteless  foam. 

Never  you  judge  by  outward  show, 
The  rarest  flowers  well  sheltered  grow, 
So  look  for  the  beauty  that's  hid  below, 

The  mind  of  a  woman  scan. 
Don't  place  a  man  by  his  wealth  or  birth, 
But  value  each  as  each  one  is  worth, 
Remember  the  noblest  thing  on  earth 

Is  an  upright,  clean-cut  man ! 


A  WANDERER'S  DAY. 


I  wake  at  dawn  and  stir  the  dying  embers, 
To  cook  the  contents  of  my  old  canteen, 
Rough,  hardened  fare — how  keenly  one  remem- 
bers, 
Those  bye-gone  days,  and  thinks  what  might 

have  been. 

Recalling  scenes  where  shady  pathways  winded, 
Of  meadows  green  where   rippling  brooklets 

run, 

And — here  I  am,  by  perspiration  blinded, 
-Plodding  along  beneath  a  blistering  sun. 

A  mid-day  halt,  in  thicket  gloom  reposing 

Where  sunbeams  chase  each  other  to  and  fro, 
Contented,  musing  half,  and  half  adozing, 

I  listen  to  the  bellbird  chiming  low. 
Then  falls  a  silence,  stagnant  and  oppressive, 

When  nothing  stirs,  from  plain  to  distant  peak, 
A  stillness  strange,  as  coming  death  impressive, 

Until  it  seems  that  God  must  surely  speak. 

50 


A   WANDERER'S   DAY. 

I  watch  the  sun  go  down  in  wondrous  splendour, 

As  cooling  winds  disperse  the  swelt'ring  heat, 
And  then  the  moon  appears,  so  soft  and  tender, 

A  crescent  pale,  beneath  Madonna's  feet 
The     clustering     stars     from     daydreams     now 

awaken 

To  gleam  in  teeming  millions  overhead, 
Whilst  down  below  the  forest  depths  are  shaken 

By  prowling  beasts,  which  fill  the  night  with 
dread. 

By  jungle  track,  where  stealthy  forms  are  creep- 
ing, 

When  cold  the  air  of  tropic  night  has  grown, 
I  build  my  fire,  whilst  all  the  world's  asleeping, 

And  crouch  beside  it,  weary  and  alone. 
The  curling  smoke,  up  to  the  mght  ascending. 

Shapes,  to  my  gaze,  a  form  divinely  fair, 
Then,  flippant  ever,  with  the  darkness  blending, 

Leaves  me  to  wakened  sorrow  and  despair. 


A  WANDERER'S  DAY. 

A  wanderer's  day,  far  from  the  city  faring, 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  luxury  and  ease, 
Toiling  beneath  a  sun  forever  glaring, 

Meeting  alone  dire  dangers  and  disease. 
No  thought  of  gain,  no  bid  for  admiration, 

As  those  who  strive  the  heights  of  fame  to 

scale, 
Only  a  fight  'gainst  sickness,  thirst,  starvation, 

Only  a  grave  beside  a  lonely  trail. 


52 


HAVE  YOU? 


Have  you  ridd'n  cross  a  pampa,  knowing  nought 

of  limitations, 

Alone  with  Nature  in  its  wildest  state, 
And  the  silence  was  so  awful  you  could  hear  the 

earth's  pulsations, 

And  your  soul,  unfettered,  calling  to  its  mate? 
Have  you  stood  upon  a  montain,  when  the  land 

and  sea  around  you 
Seemed  bounded  only  by  Eternity, 
Letting  nought  of  care  enslave  you  .  .  .  living 

on  what  Nature  gave  you? 
If  you  have  .  .  .  then  you  may  speak  of  Liberty. 


53 


HAVE  YOU? 

Have  you  mushed  across  a  snowfield  where  the 

Arctic  blizzard  pounds  you, 
All  silent  save  the  north  wind  shrieking  o'er, 
Or  broke  trail  in  the  Tropics,  where  the  jungle 

dense  surrounds  you, 
And  you're  woke  from  slumbers  by  the  tiger's 

roar? 
Have  you  shared  your  rice  and  polio1  with  a 

save  Indian  cholo2 
Yet  feasted  with  the  aristocracy, 
Brought  deep  passion's  glow  to  faces  .  .  .  daugh- 
ters fair  of  difFrent  races? 
If  you  have  .  .  .  then   you   have   tasted   Life 
with  me. 

Have  you  fought  a  fight  unaided  ...  a  war  with 

fever  waging, 
When  comrades  died  like  flies  'fore  winter's 

blast, 
Or    tossed    upon    the    ocean    'neath    a    southern 

typhoon  raging, 
And  though  each  shuddering  plunge  to  be  the 

last? 
Have   you    felt   your   bowels    sicken,   and   your 

parched  throat  quickly  thicken, 
When  sand  stretched  out  as  far  as  eye  could 

see, 
Have  you  cursed  a  maddened  cheater  .  .  .  famed 

as  quick  with  his  repeater? 
If  you  have  .  .  .  then  you  have  courted  Death 
with  me. 

1  Chicken 

3  Indian  of  the  mountains 

54 


HAVE  YOU? 

Have   you   known   a   girl   you   cared   for,    fully 

trusted,  wholly  revered, 
The   knowledge   of   whose   virtues   made   you 

glad, 
Then  had  your  ideals   shattered,  your  illusions 

widely  scattered 

By  the  action  of  a  low  down  selfish  cad? 
Have  you  spent  your  days  in  scheming,  and  your 

nights  in  fondly  dreaming 
Of  a  future  based  on  true  fidelity, 
Then  seen  your  mind's  creation  sink  to  depths  of 

degradation? 

If  you  have  .  .  .  then  you  have  shared  a  grief 
with  me. 

Have    you    started   madly    drinking   to   prevent 

yourself  from  thinking 
And  never  for  a  year  drawn  sober  breath, 
Quickly  drifting  on  the  ebb-tide  with  the  scum  of 

ev'ry  nation 

To  the  borders  of  a  low  degraded  death? 
Have  you  sunk  past  all  forgiving  .  .  .  'till  you 

stooped  to  earn  your  living 
As  'bully'  in  a  den  of  infamy, 
With  mem'ries  old  to  haunt  you  .  .  .  ambitions 

lost  to  taunt  you  ? 

If  you  have  .  .  .  then  you  have  passed  through 
hell  with  me. 

55 


HAVE  YOU? 

Have  you  sat  beside  your  camp-fire,  list'ning  to  a 

puma  crying, 
Through    the   blackness    of    a    startled   tropic 

night, 
And    pictured    scenes    familiar    in    the    embers 

quickly  dying, 
Which    brought    betraying    dimness    to    your 

sight? 
Have  you  rolled  up  in  your  blanket,  sorely  aching 

cold  and  hungry, 
With  naught  betwixt  your  couch  and  heaven's 

dome, 
Have  you  lain  for  months  unending,  sick,  with 

strangers  to  you  tending? 
If  you  have  .  .  .  then  you  have  learnt  to  value 
Home. 

Have  you  had  your  little  homestead  nestling  in 

a  fertile  valley, 
Where   the    winds   of    frenzied   Nature   never 

blow, 
And  seen  the  sated  cattle  come  lowing  to  the 

barnyard 

Through  the  meadows  where  the  orange  blos- 
soms grow? 
Have    you    heard    the    bellbird     chiming,    and 

watched  bright  Saturn  climbing 
O'er  the  distant  palms  when  sweltering  day 
has  flown, 

56 


HAVE  YOU? 

Then  thought  with  fervent  pity  of  tired  dwellers 

in  the  city? 

If  you  have  .  .  .  then  sweet  contentment  you 
have  known. 

Have  you  stood  beneath  a  mango,  while  the  early 

breezes  straying, 

Sang  to  the  rising  sun  a  welcoming  tune, 
Or    watched    the    flittering    fireflies    'neath    the 

spreading  branches  playing, 
And  heard  the  puma  heralding  the  moon? 
Have  you  lived  with  your  cholita3  in  a  rudely 

built  casita'? 

The  walls  of  bambu  and  the  floor  of  mud, 
And,  though  now  you  own  a  mansion,  still  you 

crave  for  more  expansion, 
Then   the   Tropic   Lure   has   entered   in   your 
blood. 


Indian   girl 
Hut 


THE  OUTCAST. 


Only  a  city  Outcast, 

One  of  the  world's  forlorn. 
Subject  for  men's  diversion, 

Object  of  women's  scorn. 
One  of  the  recent  fallen, 

Limp  in  the  strongholds  of  vice, 
Deep  in  the  mire  ...  a  creature  for  hire, 

Offered  to  all  at  a  price. 

Sport  for  the  brute  and  the  drunkard, 

Slave  of  exploiters  of  sin. 
Outwardly  gay  .  .  .  unrepentent, 

Numbed  by  the  mis'ry  within. 
Warmed  by  the  glow  of  the  moment, 

Chilled  by  the  fate  of  her  kind, 
Youthfulness  flown  .  .  .  forsaken  .  .  .  alone, 

Shrivelled  in  body  and  mind. 


58 


THE  OUTCAST. 

Yet  there's  the  joy  of  a  mother 

Mixed  with  her  anguish  and  cares, 
Tight  to  her  sin  ladened  bosom 

One  of  her  sinew  she  bears. 
A  wond'ring-eyed,  innocent  infant, 

Heir  to  a  birthright  of  shame, 
Yet,  by  God  it  was  sent ;  if  you  choose  to  dissent. 

Then  tell  me  from  whither  it  came ! 

She  knows  the  love  of  a  mother, 

Child,  though  it  is,  of  disgrace ; 
Yea !  and  the  look  of  Madonna 

Gleams  through  the  rouge  on  her  face. 
Yet,  she  is  only  an  outcast, 

Doomed  in  her  mis'ry  to  dwell. 
I  fervently  trust  that  God  will  be  just, 

And  send  her  betrayers  to  hell ! 

Always  the  sin  of  a  woman 

Follows  her  whither  she  goes ; 
Man  can  efface  his  wrongdoings 

With  the  ease  of  a  changing  of  clothes, 
Then  seek,  as  his  due,  for  a  virgin 

His  home  of  the  future  to  share, 
Whilst  his  love  of  the  past  in  the  gutter  is  cast, 

Unheeded  her  shriek  of  despair. 


59 


THE  OUTCAST. 

Listen !  fond  mothers  and  sweethearts, 
Harken !  ye  wives  who  are  true, 
Those,  whom  you  look  to  for  guidance, 

Those,  who  seem  stainless  to  you, 
Have   drunk   of  the   money-bought   nectar, 

Have  sated  themselves  to  the  eyes ; 
Yes :  their  wild  oats  they've  sown,  and  the  har- 
vest that's  grown, 

Are  those  outcasts  you  fiercely  despise. 


60 


PRICKLY  HEAT. 

Down  South'rn  on  the  swelt'ring  Tropic  Zone, 
Where  day  and  night  one's  body   steeped  in 

sweat, 
There's   a   torture   to   which   gringoes   all    are 

prone, 
And,  having  it,  the  others  they  forget. 

Tis  neither  vile  Bubonic, 
Yellow  Fever,  nor  the  Vomit 

It's  got  those  dread  diseases  fairly  beat, 
For  the  torture  past  comparing 
To  which  now  I  am  referring, 

Is  what  we  gringoes  call  the  Prickly  Heat. 


61 


PRICKLY  HEAT. 

It  begins  with  ruddy  pimples — just  a  few, 
But  rapidly  it  spreads  and  forms  a  patch, 

While  its  lightning  growth  amazes,  it  is  hurting 

you  like  blazes, 
And  it's'  always  in  a  place  you  cannot  scratch. 

'Neath  the  tropic  sunglare  burning, 
Through  the  dark  night  restless  turning, 

You  claw  your  body  o'er  from  head  to  feet, 
Tortures  vile,  of  man's  creation, 
Rack  and  gibbet,  thirst,  starvation, 

Are   nothing  when   compared  with   Prickly 
Heat. 


62 


PRICKLY  HEAT. 

And  a  victim  can  be  seen  at  every  turn, 

You  will  know  him  by  the  twitchings  of  his 

face, 
Meeting  one  of  self-same  feather,  they  will  sit 

for  hours  together, 

And    scratch    with    fiendish    glee    the    other's 
place. 

It  has  no  respect  of  person, 
But  alights  on  Nature's  cov'ring, 

Be  he  millionaire,  or  beggar  in  the  street, 
Rich  and  poor  alike  are  twitching, 
With  the  tantalizing  itching, 

Of  that  peace-destroying  curse — the  Pricklv 
Heat. 


63 


PRICKLY   HEAT. 

When  we  gringoes  on  our  last  long  journey  go, 
And  bid  farewell  to  this  ungodly  Coast, 

Our  dusky  host,  who  runs  the  torture  show, 
Won't  put  us  on  a  blazing  fire  to  roast. 

Such  a  false  hope  may  be  scooted 
For  old  Nick  will  do  his  duty, 
And  choose  the  punishment  our  sins  to  meet, 
So  we  all  will  be  presented, 
Till  each  one  has  sore  relented, 
With  a  rattling,  rousing  dose  of  Prickly 
Heat. 


64 


MY  IDEAL. 


Tis  in  my  dreams  I  see  my  ideal's  face, 

Yet,  when  I  wake,  it  fades  quick  into  space, 

When  all  alone  her  voice  my  ear  doth  greet, 

Whispering  to  me,  in  accents  low  and  sweet. 

I  see  her  in  the  firelight's  ruddy  glare, 

Her  form  the  flitt'ring  shadows — the  glow  her 

hair, 

And  when  the  light  grows  dim  she  draweth  nigh, 
Until  it  seems  to  me  I  hear  her  sigh. 
Then  faint  I  feel  her  warm  breath  fan  my  cheek, 
I  wait  with  beating  heart  to  hear  her  speak, 
From  out  the  gloom  comes  that  sweet  voice  so 

dear, 

Bidding  me  be  patient,  bidding  me  to  cheer, 
For  soon  materialized  she'll  come  to  me, 
Realized  my  dreams,  contented  then  I'll  be. 


65 


MY   IDEAL. 

But  this  ideal  thou'lt  tell  me  is  in  vain, 

Tis  but  a  vision  of  the  heated  brain, 

But  thou  are  wrong,  for  here  will  I  define 

The  great  ideal  I  seek,  for  which  I  pine. 

'Tis  but  a  woman  pure,  a  snow  white  flower 

Possessing  only  this  has  in  her  power 

To  make  my  life  a  heav'n,  and  in  return  I'd  give 

All  in  this  world,  for  her  alone  I'd  live. 

One,  whom  no  other  man  her  lips  had  pressed, 

One,  whom  no  man  had  held  close  to  his  breast, 

For  then  I'd  know  that  the  fond  look  of  love 

Lighting  her  eyes,  bright  as  the  stars  above, 

Was  mine  and  mine  alone,  no  other  one 

Had  shared  the  priceless  love,  which  I  had  won. 

I  know  not  if  I'll  meet  her  on  this  earth, 

I  sometimes  doubt  if  woman  has  given  her  birth. 

Still — though  I  doubt —  sweet  hope  with  me  doth 

stay, 

Consoling  my  lone  heart  by  night  and  day, 
Oh,  come  my  love,  my  Ideal  come  to  me ! 
Thou'lt  find  love  pure  and  true  awaiting  thee. 


66 


PANAMA. 


(With   apologies    to    the    singer    of    Mandalay.) 


I'm  tired  of  endless  avenues,  I'm  sick  of  count- 
less streets. 
Where  wand'ring  round  from  morn  till  night  a 

friend  one  never  meets. 
The    hustle,    noise    and   bustle    on    my    fevered 

senses  jar, 

Oh  send  me  where  no  subways  run,  nor  ele- 
vators are. 

Down  in  swelt'ring  Panama. 
Where  the  exiled  gringos  are, 
And  temptations  are   so  plentiful 

they  make  a  man  or  mar. 
Down  in  dreamy  Panama, 
'Neath  the  equatorial  star 
Where,  gleaming  bright,  hangs  low  at  night, 
the  Southern  Cross  afar. 


67 


PANAMA. 

There's  a  girl  I'm  mighty  fond  of,  and  her  skin's 

a  dusky  hue, 
Yet  she  knows  what's  right  and  proper  just 

the  same  as  me  or  you, 

Though  her  colour's  not  admitted  into  high  so- 
ciety, 
Yet  she'd  shame  her  whiter  sisters  with  her 

true  fidelity. 
With  a  true  fidelity 
She  is  waiting  there  for  me, 
Looking  out  upon  the  bosom, 

of  that  old  Pacific  sea! 
Down  in  swelt'ring  Panama  .  .  .  • 

When  the  blood-red  sun  was  dipping  down  be- 
yond Taboga  Bay, 
Along  that   stand  of  coral  hand  in  hand   we 

used  to  stray ! 
And  we'd  linger    till  the  shadows  of  the  tropic 

ev'en  fell 
A-list'ning  to  the  chiming  of  that  old  Cathedral 

bell. 

List'ning  to  the  distant  bell, 
And  the  sucking,  surging  swell, 
When  she'd  nestle  closer  to  me 

and  her  love  for  me  she'd  tell. 
Down  in  swelt'ring  Panama  .... 


68 


PANAMA. 

Then  the  stars  would  start  to  twinkle  in  the  vel- 
vet dome  of  night, 
And  the  silent  harbour  sparkle  in  the  moon's 

argental  light, 
While  the  inky  tropic  blackness  with  the  glowing 

worm  would  team, 
Until  I  thought  I'd  sure  awake  and  find  it  all  a 

dream. 

Yes,  it  surely  did  but  seem, 
Just  to  be  a  passing  dream, 
With  the  fireflies  and  the  moonlight 

and  the  phosphorescent  gleam, 
Down  in  swelt'ring  Panama. 

When  a  month  of  toil  was  over  wind  I'd  get  my 

hard-earned  pay, 
She'd  keep  just  what  was  needed  and  the  rest 

she'd  put  away, 
That's  the  reason  I  am  able  to  be  here  a-drink- 

ing  'cham  .  .  .' 
And  a-treating  sweet-tongued  ladies  who  for 

no  one  care  a  damn ! 
Though  they  never  care  a  damn, 
And  their  love  is  all  a  sham, 
There's  one  I'll  bet  who  loves  me  yet 

for  what  I  really  am, 
Down  in  swelt'ring  Panama  .  .  . 


69 


PANAMA. 

I  have  drunk  and  danced  with  women   till  I  ache 

in  ev'ry  bone, 
And  having  spent  nigh  ev'ry  cent  they've  left 

me  on  mine  own, 
Yet   there's   a  truer  maiden  in  a  fairer  land   I 

know, 
Who'd  stick  by  me  through  thick  and  thin,  in 

happiness  or  woe, 
Earning  little  years  ago, 
When  our  funds  were  getting  low, 
She'd  twine  her  arms  around  my  neck, 

and  set  my  heart  aglow, 
Down  in  swelt'ring  Panama  .  .  . 

Now   I've   squandered  all  my  savings   and   I've 

heard  some  people  say, 
That  you  can't  get  love  on  credit  round  about 

the  Great  White  Way, 
So  I'm  going  back,  God  grant  it,  to  the  sweetest 

girl  by  far, 
Who   is    waiting   for    my    coming   'neath    the 

palms  of  Panama. 
Down  in  swelt'ring  Panama, 
Where  the  exiled  gringos  are, 
And  all  the  lot  have  surely  got 

their   souls   as   black  as   tar, 
Down  in  swelt'ring  Panama, 
'Neath  that  blazing  dome  afar, 
Where,  gleaming  bright,  hangs  low  at  night 
the  Southern  Cross  afar. 
70 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


From  those  peaks  which  pierce  the  vastness, 

Where  the  snows  commune  with  silence, 
Where  the  ceaseless  hum  of  Life  has  failed  to 
reach. 

From  the  wide  majestic  uplands 

And  the  savage  godless  jungle, 
From  the  nodding  palms  which  skirt  the  shelv- 
ing beach, 

Comes  a  whisper  faint  and  fleeting, 

Quick   it   sets   the   pulses   beating 
Of  those  gringos,  who  have  learnt  to  understand, 

Tis  a  something  heart  elating, 

Like  a  lover's  voice  vibrating, 
Tis  a  luring  call  from  out  the  Southern  Land. 


71 


THE   CALL   OF   THE    SOUTH. 

And  it  ne'er  will  brook  resistance, 
Tis  of  tense,  lifelong  persistence, 

It  has  cast  o'er  us  a  spell  and  yield  we  must, 
To  its  soul  uplifting  clamour, 
To  its  weird  enthralling  glamour, 

To  that  feeling  strange  men  call  the  wanderlust. 
Restless  sons  of  ev'ry  nation, 
Long  have  known  its  fascination, 

It  has  drawn  them  from  the   farthest   ends  of 

earth, 

Not  the  sleek,  whom  wealth  entices, 
Nor  the  scum  exiled  for  vices, 

But  th'  ones  who  strive  for  fame — the  men  of 
worth. 

They  are  sweating  in  the  denseness, 
Of  an  Ecuadorian  forest, 

Where  fever's  deadly  strongholds  they  assail, 
Tow'ring  mountains  know  their  daring, 
You  will  see  their  camp-fires  flaring 

'Long  the  windings  of  a  bleak  Bolivian  trail. 
Having  cast  all  ties  behind  'em 
On  a  Chilian  waste  you'll  find  'em, 

Where  the  solitude  eternal  turns  you  dumb, 
'Tis  not  selfish  greed  enslaving, 
But  a  fierce  rebellious  craving  .  .  . 

'Tis  the  yearning  call  of  Space  which  bids  you 


72 


THE   CALL   OF  THE   SOUTH. 

It  is  calling,  ever  calling, 

Faintly  comes  the  distant  echo, 
Of  that  voice  which  stirs  the  blood  of  those  who 
roam, 

For  it  speaks  of  morning  glory, 

Noonday  glare,  and  sunset's  gory, 
Of  livid  moon,  of  stars  and  velvet  dome. 

Telling  tales  of  paths  untravelled, 

Hidden  mysteries  unravelled, 
Of  sickness  dire,  uncared  for  and  alone. 

Of  graves  in  unknown  places ; 

Whilst  they  hark  with  eager  faces ; 
The  mystic  South  has  claimed  them  for  its  own ! 


73 


MY  CUBANITA. 


There's  a  little  hut  I  know  of  in  a  verdant  cov- 
ered land, 
Where  the  shores  are  soft  caressed  by  Caribb 

calm. 
And  this  little  hut  is   standing  on   a  glittering 

coral  strand 

'Neath  the  shelter  of  a  spreading  cocoa  palm. 
The  walls  are  rudely  fashioned,  for  they're  made 

of  palma  leaves, 

The  roof  admits  the  tropic  sun  and  rains, 
Through  the  gaping  chinks  at  midnight  passes 

free  the  cooling  breeze, 

Whilst    th'    ruddy    dawn    the    inmost    corner 
stains. 


74 


MY  CUBANITA. 

There's  a  little  girl  I  know  of,  whose  abode's  that 

humble  shack, 

A  ruler  absolute,  great  power  she  wields, 
Though  her  skin  is  rather  dusky  and  her  clothing 

somewhat  lack, 

Yet  in  truth  and  purity  to  none  she  yields. 
A   rugged   coral   mountain,   rising   from   a    still 

lagoon, 

Comprises  for  this  queen  a  wondrous  throne, 
With  the   sun  her  mighty  sceptre — her  diadem 

the  moon, 
She  reigns  o'er  stretching  land  and  sea,  alone. 

When  the  blazing  sun  at  dawning  launches  forth 

his  blist'ring  rays, 

She  bathes  her  perfect  form  of  dusky  hue, 
In  the  cool  laguna  waters,  where  the   sportive 

porpoise  plays, 

And  skimming  low,  the  myriad  seabirds  mew. 
She  glides,  devoid  of  effort,  from  the  sun-kissed 

coral   shore, 
To    quickly    dive    to    where    the    white    sand 

gleams, 
And,  as  she  graceful  rises  to  the  rippled  breast 

once   more, 
A  water-nymph,  divinely  fair,  she  seems. 


75 


MY  CUBANITA. 

» 

When    the   piping   day   is    over,   and   the    moon 

shines  cold  above 
And  night  is  fresh  in  its  virginity, 
,She   twangs  her  gitarita  and   she   sings   those 

songs  of  love, 

As  often  she  has  sung  them  o'er  to  me. 
Across  the  calm  laguna  comes  a  seabird"s  plain- 
tive cry, 

Full  lonely  in  the  absence  of  its  mate, 
Her    sweet    song   ends    abrutly,    from    her    lips 

escapes  a  sigh, 
She  too  is  doomed  her  love's  return  to  wait. 

Till  the  bellbird  echoes  midnight,  and  the  phos- 
phor is  aglow, 

She  lingers,  sadly  gazing  out  at  sea, 
Towards   the   far  horizon,   where   the   Southern 

Cross  hangs  low, 

And  I  know  that  she  is  yearning  just  for  me. 
She  is  yearning  for  the  moment  when  I'll  take 

her  in  mine  arms, 

And  kiss  away  those  tears  which  dim  her  eyes, 
Then  stay,  a  fellow  victim  to  that  land's  seduc- 
tive charms, 
A  partner  in  that  earthly  paradise. 


76 


MY  CUBANITA. 

She's  my  dark-eyed  Cubanita,  daughter  of  that 

Island  free, 

Whose  soil  is  clothed  with  waving  sugar  cane, 
A  simple  child  of  Nature,  yet  a  goddess  fair  to 

see, 

Appointed  o'er  Arcadia  to  reign. 
Oh !  lead  me  to  its  portals,  let  me  breath  its  air 

once  more, 

Let  me  taste  its  joys  of  life,  and  fruits  of  love ! 
With  its  walls  the  red  horizon,  the  forest  green 

its  floor, 
Its  gilded  roof  the  stretching  dome  above. 


77 


THE  BUM. 


He  drifted  in  on  the  tide  of  sin, 

Deep  in  the  human  slime, 
One  of  the  scum,  a  low-down  Bum, 

Schooled  in  the  art  of  crime. 
Nothing  in  sight  but  a  drunkard's  grave, 

Shunned  by  the  world,  alone, 
Begging  his  ivay  howe'er  he  may, 

Down  on  the  Isthmus  Zone. 

Yet  he'd  a  tale  which  he  told  to  me 

Once  in  a  sober  spell, 
Reason  enough  why  so  rapidly 

He  trod  on  the  path  to  hell. 
Reason,  I  said,  why  he  downward  sped 

With  a  rush  that  nought  could  hold, 
Always  the  same — a  woman  to  blame, 

For  this  is  the  tale  he  told. 


78 


THE    BUM. 

Did  you  hap'd  to  be  on  the  Isthmus  Zone  about 

the  year  '05 
When  that  strip  of  land  twixt  each  ocean  strand 

was  like  to  a  bustling  hive, 
When  the  wondrous   scheme  of  a  mighty  task 

was  wrought  without  falt'ring  hitch, 
And  the  calloused  drove,  like  demons,  strove  in 

the  depths  of  that  world-famed  ditch. 

If  you  had  then   you   would  have   heard   them 

speak  down  in  Colon  Town, 
Of  the  bright  career  of  an  engineer  who  won 

for  himself  renown. 
Who,  by  the  strength  of  his  brawn  and  brain, 

towered  far  above  the  rest, 
Till  across  that  Zone  he  was  widely  known  as  a 

sample  of  Nature's  best. 


79 


THE    BUM. 

Tall  and  straight — with  eyes  that  read  thoughts 

of  the  inmost  heart. 
Meeting  the  world  with  erected  head,  manfully 

playing  his  part. 
Picture  in  thought  the  man  I  pafnt,  fresh  with 

the  blush  of  youth, 
Now  swear  it's  a  lie !  but  that  man  was  I,  yes,  I, 

with  this  face  uncouth. 

Proud  was  I  in  those  former  days,  sought  by  my 

fellow  men, 
Feeling  the   glow  which   is   wrought  by  praise, 

lauded  by  speech  and  pen, 
Winning   the    smiles   of   the    fairer    sex,   blessed 

with  the  love  of  some, 
Willing  to  be  what  I  chose,  to  me, — a  worn-out 

no-good  Bum. 


80 


THE    BUM. 

Unknown  to  me  was  the  soft  caress,  the  warmth 

of  a  fluttering  breast, 
The  wondrous  bliss  of  that  long-drawn  kiss,  the 

joy  of  the  after-rest. 
Pure  was  I  in  my  thoughts  and  deeds,  steeled  in 

the  human  strife, 
Till  the  luring  shade  of  a  lying  jade  was  thrown 

'cross  my  path  in  life. 

Paint  what  you  will !  she  was  fairer  still,  fair  as 

a  tropic  dawn, 
Worthy   to   vie   with   the  blushing   sky,   as   the 

glowing  sun's  withdrawn. 
Yea !  and  her  voice  with  its  velvet  tones,  soothed 

like  a  soft  refrain, 
The  liquid  trill  of  her  laughter  still  rings  through 

my  sodden  brain. 


81 


THE   BUM. 

Few  were  the  days  from  the  hour  we  met  till  she 

was  my  only  thought, 
The  substance  real  of  my  mind's  ideal — all  that 

in  life  I  sought. 
On  virtue's  throne  I  placed  her  alone,  as  only  a 

lover  can, 
And  to  her  gave  all  a  girl  should  crave. — the  love 

of  a  clean-cut  man. 

When  Colon  bay,  at  the  close  of  day,  mirrored 

the  tints  above, 
And  the  evening  breeze,  through  the  palma  trees, 

sighed  for  its  morning  love, 
Oft  we'd  sit  by  that  circling  beach,  washed  by  the 

Caribb  sea, 
How  my  heart  would  beat  with  a  rapture  sweet, 

as  she  told  of  her  love  for  me. 


82 


THE   BUM. 

Then  the  nascent  moon,  as  a  cescent,  soon  would 

rise  from  her  virgin  bower, 
And  a  thousand  stars,  each  a  blazing  Mars,  their 

beams  on  the  night  would  shower, 
Whilst   hand   in   hand   'long   that   coral   strand, 

where  the  snow-capped  breakers  curled, 
We'd  wander  slow,  with  our  hearts  aglow,  alone 

in  a  lovers'  world. 

My   God!     How    I    schemed,   and   worked   and 

dreamed  of  the  joy  that  would  soon  be  mine, 
My  only  thought  was  the  goal  I  sought,  a  Home, 

with  its  love  divine, 
That  haven  sweet  of  a  perfect  peace,  aloof  from 

the  worldly  strife, 
Where  the  radiant  morn,  of  a  love  new-born, 

would  last  till  the  end  of  life. 


THE    BUM. 

'Twas  but  a  week  from  that  longed-for  day  when 

she  would  receive  my  name, 
Would  it  e'er  pass  by?    All  impatient  I,  the  prize 

I  had  won,  to  claim, 
And  we  sat  that  night  from  the  crowd  apart,  in  a 

ballroom's  cool  retreat, 
'Neath  a  palma's  shade,  whilst  the  banda1  played, 

a  waltz  Strauss,  low  and  sweet. 

One  which  seems  to  speak  of  dreams,  the  heart's 

lone  space  to  fill, 
Though  years  have  flown  and  hard  I've  grown, 

that  music  haunts  me  still. 
Back   through    the   years    it    comes   to   me,    till 

quick  my  pulses  leap, 
Its  sweet  refrain  I  hear  again  in  the  void  of  my 

drunken  sleep. 


Band 

84 


THE   BUM. 

We'd  sat   awhile  in  a  blissful  dream,   screened 

from  the  curious  glance, 
When  another  came,  from  my  side  to  claim  my 

love  for  a  promised  dance, 
With  a  whispered  word,  which  alone   I   heard, 

she  rose  from  our  sheltered  seat, 
And  with  true  charm,  on  her  partner's  arm,  was 

borne  to  the  music's  beat. 

As  they  passed  from  view  in  the  laughing  throng 

I  sought  once  again  that  seat, 
And  gazing  down  on  the  leaf-strewn  ground  lay 

a  letter,  'twixt  my  feet. 
Which  first  surprised,  for  I  realized  the  script  of 

my  promised  wife, 
Then  sent  a  pain  through  my  whirling  brain,  like 

the  thrust  of  a  keen-edged  knife. 


85 


THE   BUM. 

For  the  one  addressed  was  a  man  I'd  known, 

famed  as  a  poisonous  weed, 
A  useless  lot,  a  drunken  sot,  worm  of  the  lowest 

breed. 
One  who  would,  if  the  price  was  good,  barter 

his  closest  friend, 
Whose  life,   depraved,   oft  victims   craved   would 

meet  with  a  speedy  end. 

Have  you  ever  looked  on  a  man  condemned,  as 

he  stands  'neath  the  gallows  tree, 
And   for   his    crime   in    a    moment's    time    must 

plunge  to  eternity? 
Have  you  heard  that  cry,  as  he's  pinned  to  die, 

which  comes  from  his  anguished  soul? 
That  shriek  which  tells  of  the  hell  of  hells,  as  he 

drops  through  the  gaping  hole  ? 


86 


THE    BUM. 

If  you  have  then  you  can  imagine  me,  as  I  read 

that  letter  o'er, 
Which  plainly  showed  that   my  bride-to-be   the 

heart  of  a  harpy  bore, 
For  wrote  she  not  that  her  love  was  his  whilst 

clearly  describing  how, 
I'd  take  the  blame  of  her  secret  shame  with  that 

of  my  marriage  vow. 

I  was  the  tool,  the  poor  damned  fool,  she'd  use 
as  a  social  shield, 

Doomed  to  partake  for  appearance's  sake  of 
fruits  which  her  sin  would  yield, 

I,  who  had  learned  the  truth  to  seek,  the  false- 
hood to  despise, 

Would  pass  this  life  with  a  faithless  wife,  steeped 
in  the  foulest  lies. 


87 


THE    BUM. 

Crazed  with  grief  from  the  cursed  place  into  the 

night  I  fled, 
Need   the   rest  be   told?      In   my   haggard   face 

you'll  read  what  I've  left  unsaid. 
With  women  and  liquor,  cards  and  dice  trying  to 

numb  the  pain, 
Till  at  last  I  fell  to  the  depths  of  hell,  never  to 

rise  again. 

***** 

That  was  the  tale  in  a  plaintive  wail  he  told  to 

my  great  surprise, 
Whilst  to  me  it  seemed  that  his  lost  soul  gleamed 

out  from  his  bloodshot  eyes. 
Then  the  light  did  fade  from  their  watery  depths, 

his  feverish  lips  were  dumb, 
And  he  stood  once  more,  by  Death's  dark  door,  a 

nameless,  low-down  Bum. 


VALPARAISO  BAY. 


When   the   virgin   morn   awakens,   and   its   face 

aflame  with  blushes 
Arises  from  the  fragrant  prairie  bed, 
Fleeting  elfins  of  the  dawning  tear  aside  night's 

darkened  awning 

To  reveal  fair  Nature's  paintings  overhead. 
Soon  from  mountain,  crest  and  valley,  smiling 

vineyard,  sullen  pampa, 
The  last  intrepid  shadows  steal  away, 
Or,  paling,  quick  surrender  when  the  sun  in  won- 
drous splendour 
Climbs  o'er  those  heights  of  Valparaiso  Bay. 


89 


VALPARAISO    BAY. 

Soon   the    city    is    astirring,   from    each    narrow 

crooked  calle* 

Ascends  the  morning  vendor's  'cadent  call, 
Bells    for    early    Matins    ringing,    deep    voiced 

fishers  gayly  singing 
As  they  homeward  row  with  their  abundant 

haul. 
In  the  sunlit  space  o'erspreading  .  .  .  turned  to 

Bedlam  by  their  screaming, 
Large  countless  flocks  of  gaviotas  play, 
Sweeping  downwards  .  .  .  upwards  twirling  .  . 

like  a  shower  of  snowflakes  whirling 
O'er  the  mirrowed  depths  of  Valparaiso  Bay. 


Street 

90 


VALPARAISO   BAY. 

In  the  dazzling  glare  of  noon-day  man  and  beast 

abstain  from  toiling, 
Hungry   seabirds   cease   awhile  their  warfare 

shrill, 
All   are   silently   reposing  .  .  .  through   a    short 

siesta  dozing, 

Whilst  the  breathless  land  is  lying  deathly  still. 
Nothing  stirs  from  rising  cerro*  to  the  farthest 

off-shore  whaler, 

(Old  gnarled  warrior  proved  in  many  a  fray), 
Overcome  Pacific's  rancour  .  .  .  swaying  peace- 
fully at  anchor, 
To  the  rythmic  swell  of  Valparaiso  Bay. 


Noonil.-iy   sleep 
Hill 


91 


VALPARAISO   BAY. 

But  the  scene  attains  perfection  when  the  swel- 

t'ring  day  is  closing, 
E're    the    deeper    shades   are    cast   by    coming 

night, 
Lofty  spires  so  stately  rearing  .  .  .  tow'ring  hill 

and  cliff  appearing 
Engulfed   in   flames   beneath   the   shimmering 

light. 
Whilst  the  final  rayos*  •  .  .  seeming  like  a  huge 

reflector  beaming  .  .  . 

Among  the  clouds  and  distant  snowpeaks  play, 
Then  descending,  fiercely  glowing,  send  a  crim- 
son stream  wide  flowing 
Across  the  breast  of  Valparaiso  Bay. 


92 


VALPARAISO    BAY. 

Grey,  the  veil  of  night  spreads  over,  driving  from 

the  verdant  landscape, 
The  last  lone  remnants  of  the  afterglow, 
Glided   spires   and  purple   cerros   are   bedecked 

with  ghostly  raiment,  , 

And,  with  the  passing  moments,  fainter  grow. 
Dim  are  seen  the  whitened  tombstones  marking 
where  the  exiled  children 
Of  a  mighty  Mother  Country  far  away, 
Having  made  her  name  undying,  in  God's  loving 

care  are  lying 
On  those  heights  o'erlooking  Valparaiso  Bay. 


93 


VALPARAISO   BAY. 

Soon  the  sentinels  of  darkness  glimmer  in  the 

stretching  vastness, 
Clear  the   city   lights,   back   through   the   night, 

reply, 
Heaven's  canopy  is  teeming.  .  .  with  a  million 

starlets  gleaming, 

And  the  Southern  Cross,  afire,  is  hung  on  high, 
Crowds  in  plazas*  cool  are  straying,  list'ning  to 

the  bandas*  playing, 
Departed  now  the  stifling  heat  of  day, 
Whilst    the    true    artistic    luna    changes    to    a 

bright  laguna 
The  calm  expanse  of  Valparaiso  Bay. 


6  City    squares 
•  Bands 


94 


VALPARAISO   BAY. 

Through  the  trackless  tropic  jungle,  on  the  bleak 

Magellan  pampas, 

From  plains  to  where  the  snow  eternal  lies, 
In  those  lands  by  nature  favoured,  I  have  fought 

and  loved  and  laboured, 
With  the  lowly  herded  .  .  .  feasted  with  the 

high. 
But,  although  I  aimless  wander.  .  .  free  as  air 

with  nought  to  bind  me, 
There's  one  lovely  spot  where  gladly  I  would 

stay, 
And   I   pray  that — ceased  my   roaming — I    may 

pass  life's  tranquil  gloaming 
By  the  peaceful  shores  of  Valparaiso  Bay. 


95 


THE  SOUTHLAND. 


A  wooer,  in  love  with  Creation, 

Adrift  from  the  day  of  my  birth, 
Allegiance  I  give  to  no  nation, 

The  country  I  claim  is  the  Earth. 
From  swamps  where  the  Chagres  is  fio\ving, 

Through  jungles  where  fevers  abound, 
To  wastes,  where  bleak  blizzards  are  blowing, 

The   mark   of   my    footprint   is    found. 

Perhaps  you  have  never  heard  spoken 

The  name  of  the  land  that  I  mean, 
The  heart  of  its  wilds  is  unbroken 

The  best  of  its  beauties  unseen. 
There,  mountains  sheer  upwards  are  tow'ring, 

To  pass  in  the  dimness  from  sight, 
Whilst  jungles,  of  vastness  o'crpow'ring, 

Are  clothed  in  the  blackness  of  night. 


96 


THE   SOUTHLAND. 

Each  morn  is  a  curtain  combining 

All  works  of  God's  wonderful  loom, 
Rare  tints  of  the  rainbow  entwining 

With  those  of  a  garden  in  bloom. 
At  e'ven  each  mountain  peak  hoary 

With  rivers  of  gold  is  aflood, 
As  the  sun,  still  arrayed  in  its  glory, 

Sinks  down  in  an  ocean  of  blood. 

Then  stars  in  their  myriads  teeming, 

Appear  on  the  blackboard  of  night, 
Fair  luna,  aroused  from  her  dreaming, 

Bathes  earth  with  a  virginal  light. 
Dark  jungles  and  forest  awaken 

From  coma  of  sweltering  day, 
As  widely  their  slumbers  are  shaken 

By  prowling  brutes  seeking  their  prey. 


97 


THE   SOUTHLAND. 

Pacific  is  endlessly  crooning 

Its  chant  to  the  coral-bound  strand, 
Nature  forever  is  tuning 

The  strings  of  a  wonderful  band. 
Each  with  the  other  full  blending 

Whilst  chorus  on  chorus  is  piled, 
Till  loud  to  the  skies  is  ascending 

A  rapturous  song  of  the  Wild. 

That  is  the  land,  when  you  leave  it 

You  swear  'tis  a  final  good-bye ! 
But  somehow  you  fail  to  achieve  it, 

You  cannot,  however  you  try. 
For  though  it  breeds  fevers  that  rot  you, 

And  offers  but  hardships  and  pain, 
Yet  the  Lure  of  the  Tropics  has  'got'  you, 

You'll  return  to  the  Southland  again. 


98 


THE  GRINGO'S  LAMENT. 


Take  me  away  from  the  city  gay,  with  its  end- 
less rush  and  roar, 
Fair  to  the  eye  of  the  passer-by,  cankering  at 

its  core, 

God !  How  I  hate  these  men  innate,  with  manli- 
ness erased, 

Their  fitting  mates  but  fashion  plates,  with  the 
human  form  effaced. 

Take    me    away    from    the    Great    White    Way, 

where  teeming  millions  tread, 
Far  from  the  sound  of  the  Underground,  and 

the  whirl  of  the  Overhead. 

Far  from  the  taint  of  that  clouded  view,  and  nar- 
row mind  begat 

By  the  soulless,  spineless,  humdrum  life  of  a 
modern  up-town  flat. 


99 


THE    GRINGO'S    LAMENT. 

Give  me  a  hut  by  a  coral  strand,  where  the  palms 

in  clusters  grow, 
A  tropic  night,  wtih  the  stars  alight  and  the 

phosphor  gleam  aglow, 
The  murmur  low  of  the  lapping  waves,  the  song 

of  the  surging  swell, 

And  bellbirds  weird  in  a  neighbouring  grove, 
chiming  their  midnight  knell. 

What  do  I  care  for  the  swagger  fare  of  a  high- 
toned  restaurant, 

Or  dinners  glum  where  I  listen  dumb  to  a  chat- 
tering debutante, 

Tired  I  am  of  the  taste  of  'cham' — and  the  per- 
fumed fat  cigar, 

Of  lolling  around,  like  a  king  uncrowned,  in  a 
high-priced  motorcar. 


100 


THE  GRINGO'S  LAMENT. 

Send  me  back  o'er  a  mountain  track,  from  dawn 

till  the  day  is  done, 
Where  the  lone  reply  to  your  hunger's  cry  is 

the  bark  of  a  trusty  gun. 
Cast  me  adrift  where  the  sandhills  shift  to  the 

play  of  a  pampa  breeze, 

With  a  thirst  to  raise,  and  a  trail  to  blaze, 
and  a  bronco  twixt  my  knees. 

Ever  I  yearn  for  a  quick  return  to  that  land  of 

the  sunsets  red, 
Where  the  amber  dawn,  as  a  startled  fawn, 

leaps  from  its  prairie  bed, 
The  noonday  glare  I'll  gladly  bear,  and,  when  the 

night  lies  down, 

Held  to  its  breast  I'll  peaceful  rest  away  from 
New  York  Town. 


101 


WOMAN. 


A  mixture  strange  of  right  and  wrong, 
Of  frowns  and  laughter,  tears  and  song, 
Of  ways  which  do  and  don't  belong 

To  the  meek  or  the  worldly  wise ; 
Of  fear  .  .  .  yet  brave  in  facing  pain, 
Of  humble  mien,  yet  high  disdain, 
Of  lofty  thoughts  and  sordid  gain, 

Of  truth  and  petty  lies. 

She'll  sink  from  sight  in  choking  slime, 
Or  pass  from  view  to  heights  sublime, 
Yet,  lowly  born,  will  seldom  climb 

But  stay  where  she  began ; 
With  clouded  brain  and  blinded  eyes 
From  out  the  dust  she  fails  to  rise, 
Ambition  lacking,  never  tries 

To  keep  abreast  with  man. 


102 


WOMAN. 

Those  lips,  which  innocently  prate, 

And  whisper  words,  which  heavens  create, 

Can  spit  forth  curses  filled  with  hate, 

Which  turn  one's  marrow  cold; 
Those   breasts,   which   God   has   deigned   to 

bless, 

Which  bloom  beneath  a  child's  caress, 
Can  overflow  with  wantonness, 
The  darkest  secrets  hold. 

Soft  hands,  which  soothe  the  sick  to  sleep, 
She  in  revengeful  blood  may  steep, 
They'll  turn  to  claws  as  swift  she'll  leap 

To  aid  her  mate's  defence ; 
And  in  the  depths  of  those  bright  eyes, 
Where  men  have  oft  found  paradise, 
The  flame  of  scorn  can  quick  arise 

Or  flourish  cute  pretense. 


103 


WOMAN. 

Though  sometimes  she  by  man  is  bought, 
His  money  gone  .  .  .  her  mission  wrought, 
She'll  cast  him  off  without  a  thought, 

As  she  would  do  her  glove ; 
Yea !  though  she  stoops  her  soul  to  sell, 
Yet  will  her  heart  in  freedom  dwell, 
With  smiling  face  she'll  go  through  hell, 

And  give  her  life  for  love. 

Contempt  and  worship  both  she  breeds, 

Desire  for  good  and  evil  feeds, 

And  contradicts  her  words  and  deeds, 

A  thousand  different  ways ; 
A  problem  which  has  ne'er  been  solved, 
Though  Destinies  are  oft  involved, 
She'll  stay  a  mystery  unsolved 

Until  the  end  of  days. 


104 


THE  PET. 


You'll  see  him  o'  nights  'neath  the  spluttering 
lights 

Of  a  blazoned  booze  saloon, 
Striking  with  ease  from  the  ivory  keys 

A  popular  rag-time  tune ; 
Shouting  the  lines  of  a  limerick  song, 

One  of  a  sulphurous  brand, 
Turning  again  to  the  haunting  refrain 

Of  a  waltz,  or  an  opera  grand. 

Meeting  the  curse  or  badgering  terse 

With  nought  but  a  shamefaced  grin, 
Trying  his  best,  with  obnoxious  jest, 

A  smile  from  his  hearers  to  win; 
A  branded  Bum,  the  worthy  chum 

Of  a  painted  lynx-eyed  dame, 
A  follower  shrewd  of  that  cankerous  brood, 

Living  on   women's   shame. 


105 


THE   PET. 

You  ne'er  would  think  that  this  low-down  'gink' 

Was  the  son  of  an  honoured  dad, 
The  favorite  child  of  a  mother  mild, 

A  'varsity  undergrad ; 
Who,  through  his  name,  could  rightly  claim 

Descent  from  a  noble  breed, 
And  wrested  praise,  in  bye-gone  Jays, 

From  men  of  whom  we  read.  , 

Who  won  the  hand  of  a  woman  true, 

Chosen  'fore  other  men, 
A  model  fair  of  that  beauty  rare, 

Pictured  by  artists'  pen ; 
Who  gave  him  all  that  a  man  may  ask, 

Purity,  Truth  and  Love, 
To  find  it  used,  besmirched  and  cast 

Aside,  like  a  worn-out  glove. 


106 


THE   PET. 

And  he,  who  knew  the  soft  caress 

The  kiss  of  a  virgin  maid, 
Now  stoops  to  tend  to  the  whims  and  ways 

Of  a  heartless,  soulless  jade. 
He,  who  ate  with  a  millionaire, 

And  drank  with  a  belted  peer, 
Hired  to  amuse,  all  who  may  choose, 

To  call  for  a  ten-cent  beer. 

Yet  pity  him  not,  he's  a  drunken  sot, 

Dead  to  the  sense  of  shame ; 
Fallen  as  low  as  man  can  go, 

And  only  himself  to  blame. 
Braggart  and  bully,  coward  and  cur, 

Imp  of  the  blackest  jet, 
That's  him  who's  known  on  the  Ithmus  zone 

As  the  Red  Light  District  Pet. 


107 


THE  EXILED  GRINGO. 


To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  The  Village  Blacksmith 


Under  a  spreading  banyan  tree 
The  Exiled  Gringo  sits, 
Around  his  burning  aching  head 
A  small  mosquito  flits 
And  never  for  a  moment  brief 
Its   sordid   humming   quits. 

The   gringo's  hair  is   crisp  and   short, 

His  skin  a  sickly  tan, 

His  brow  is  wet  with  fever's  sweat, 

He  works  whene'er  he  can, 

And  studies  each  and  ev'ry  tacc 

For  he  trusts  not  any  man. 


108 


THE   EXILED   GRINGO. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  'till  night, 

The  fever  racks  his  frame, 

The  greenhorns,  coming  out  from  home 

Are  young  and  tender  game. 

Malaria  vile,  or  Yellow  Jack 

Their  bodies  quickly  claim. 

He  goes  on  Sunday  to  the  town 

And  gets  among  the  boys, 

He  watches  others  drink  and  bet, 

He  hears  a  harpy's  voice, 

Singing  in  days  gone  bye, 

If  he  but  had  his  choice. 

It  sounds  to  him  like  someone  dear 

Singing  in  days  gone  bye, 

He  wipes,  with  palsied,  shaking  hand, 

A  tear-drop  from  his  eye. 


109 


THE  EXILED  GRINGO. 

Working,  drinking,  borrowing, 
Onward  through  life  he  goes, 
Each  week-end  sees  his  plata1  drawn 
Each  evening  quick  it  flows, 
Striving  always,  nothing  gained 
Till  death  his  eyelids  close. 


Money  (silver) 

110 


MEMORIES. 


Dear  old  pal,  do  you  remember  when  we  roamed 

the  Southland  over 

From  blazing  Panama  down  to  the  Horn? 
On  the  brink  of  manhood  verging,  with  the  red 

blood  through  us  surging, 
'Long   the    pathways    of    adventure   were    we 

borne. 
Then  we  knew  no  days  of  sorrow,  thoughtless 

ever  of  the  morrow, 

We  wandered  on  where  fickle  fortune  led, 
Now  our  day  grows  quickly  dimmer,  and  life's 

spark  is  but  a  glimmer; 
Yet,  pal  of  mine,  those  mem'ries  are  not  dead. 


Ill 


MEMORIES. 

In   my   fancy   we   are   sweating  once   again   by 

Chagres  river, 
Where     we     pierced     the     festooned     jungle 

through  and  through, 
Or  we're  tramping  'cross  the  moorlands  of  that 

bleak,  storm-swept  Magellan, 
Where  the  blizzards  of  Antarctic  fiercely  blew. 
Conies  to  mind  the  arid  pampa  where  we  treked, 

athirst  and  weary, 

Beneath  the  glare  of  that  eternal  sun. 
And  by  Guaya,  gently   flowing,   I   can   see   our 

camp-fires  glowing 

As  we  smoked  a  fragrant  pipe  when  day  was 
done. 


112 


MEMORIES. 

Do  you  ever  think,  old  comrade,  of  those  sun- 
baked dusty  cities, 
Of  narrowed  streets  wherein  strange  odours 

dwell, 
Of  plazas  cool  at  ev'ning,  when  the  blaring  bands 

were  playing, 

And  nightly  'jags'  when  fairly  raised  we  hell. 
Those  were  times  when  nothing  mattered,  joys 

and  hardships  shared  together, 
Thoughts  of  love,  of  sweet  romance  and  deadly 

strife, 
Though  with  Fate  we  oftimes  sported,  and  grim 

Death  by  us  was  courted, 
Yet,  comrade  mine,  we  drank  the  wine  of  Life ! 


MEMORIES 

And  those  strange  enchanted  islands,  with  the 

ripened  fruit  in  plenty, 

Where  each  of  us  ensnared  a  dusky  queen, 
The  hours  of  fervent  rapture,  and  qf  dolce  far 

niente1. 

Those  nights  of  dazzling  stars  and  silver  sheen. 
O'er  the  surf-drenched  reefs  of  coral  where  the 

oily  swell  is  surging, 
A  scented  breeze  is  straying  to  and  fro, 
And   it   softly   keeps   repeating  to   the   combers 

shoreward  fleeting, 
Those  heart-enthralling  tales  of  long  ago. 


1  Sweet  idleness 

114 


MEMORIES. 

Now,  descending  to  the  valley  where  deep  shad- 
ows are  appearing, 
The   peaks   of   youth   and   strength   seem   far 

away, 
Still,   in   my  mind's   reflection,   I  'can   see   them 

stately  rearing, 

It  seems  as  if  we'd  scaled  them  yesterday. 
But   our   journey's    almost    ended ;    soon,    when 

Death's  dark  veil  is  rended, 
Together  we  will  face  the  Great  High  Boss, 
So,  'ere  leave  of  earth  is  taken,  here's  to  friend- 
ship ne'er  forsaken! 
Adios,  my  loyal  comrade  .  .  .  adios. 


115 


THE  GRINGO'S  HOMECOMING. 


Down    in    swelt'ring    Panama,    up    in    freezing 

Bogota, 
'Long  the  fevered  Spanish  Mainland,  from  the 

Isthmus  to  Para, 
On    an    Ecuadorian    pampa,    in    a    hot    Peruvian 

town, 
From  the  beach  of  Valparaiso  'till  the  stormy 

Horn  you  round, 
You   will   find    the    wand'ring   gringo,    so   he's 

called  in  West  Coast  lingo, 
A  son  of  England  or  the  U.  S.  A., 
Who,  from  varied  circumstances,  freedom's  will, 

or  lack  of  chances, 
Or  from  causes  best  unknown,  is  'out'  to  stay. 


116 


THE   GRINGO'S   HOMECOMING. 

Born  of  high  or  lowly  station,  board  or  college 

education, 
Speaking   with   a   Yankee    twang   or   Oxford 

drawl, 
Scotsman,    Irish,    Londoner — Eastern,    Western, 

Southerner, 
Of  ev'ry  different  creed,  yet  gringos  all. 

Strong  in  youth,  in  years  declining,  married,  sin- 
gle, concubining, 

Trading,  banking,  mining,  planting  for  his  pay, 
In    a    sultry    seaport    baking,    on    a    snow-clad 

mountain  shaking, 

From  the  breaking  of  the  dawn  'till  close  of 
day. 


117 


THE   GRINGO'S   HOMECOMING. 

Leaving  home  with  great  ambitions,  in  his  mind 

the  youthful  visions 
Of  a  Promised  Land,  where  milk  and  honey 

flow, 
Soon  he  finds  that  earning  money  is  distinct  to 

sucking  honey, 
And  the  milk  he  drinks  is  from  the  cup  of  woe. 

Years  of  working  to  his  credit  he  will  find  the 

balance  debit, 

Not  a  cent  to  show  for  weary  hours  of  sweat, 
While,  as  each  year  adds  another  to  his  toiling, 

he'll  discover 
That  instead  of  saving  up  he's  deep  in  debt. 


118 


THE   GRINGO'S   HOMECOMING. 

And  his  cherished  hopes  now  vanished,  he  con- 
siders that  he's  banished, 
He  fears  to  face  his  old  companions'  scorn, 
Past  advice  of  others  spurning,  he  is  fearful  of 

returning 
As  a  failure  to  the  land  where  he  was  born. 

Yet  he  risks  his  soul's  perdition,  boasting  of  his 

high  position, 

To  his  parents,  who  believe  it,  .ev'ry  word, 
While  they  tell  his  friends  about  it,  who  ne'er 

think  to  even  doubt  it, 

Wondrous    stories    of    that    Promised    Land 
they've  heard. 


119 


THE  GRINGO'S   HOMECOMING. 

On  the  years  so  fleeting  roll,  while  Death's  angel 

claims  its  toll, 

Never  will  be  see  his  mother's  face  again, 
What  tears  of  grief  he  shed,  for  she  passed  away, 

he  read, 
Calling  for  that  absent  wanderer  in  vain. 

Enters  then  that  homesick  yearning,  which  de- 
cides him  on  returning, 
To  labour  in  his  native  land  once  more, 
Scraping   all   he   has   together,   and   with   heart 

light  as  a  feather, 
He  watches  fade  from  sight  that  foreign  shore. 


120 


THE   GRINGO'S   HOMECOMING. 

To  his  eyes  the  cliffs  of  Dover,  or  the  Statue, 

towering  over, 

Are  by  far  the  dearest,  fairest  scenes  on  earth, 
Years  of  exile  left  behind  him,  tears  of  joy  rise 

up  to  blind  him, 
As  he  gazes  on  the  country  of  his  birth. 

But  the  faintest  tinge  of  sadness  slightly  clouds 

his  new-found  gladness, 
As  the  steamer  to  the  crowded  dock  makes 

fast, 

Not  a  friend  is  there  to  meet  him,  no  bright  smil- 
ing face  to  greet  him, 
Not  a  comrade  of  the  half-forgotten  past. 


121 


THE   GRINGO'S   HOMECOMING 

And  he  visits  former  scenes,  visions  of  his  many 

dreams, 

In  eagerness  fond  greetings  to  exchange, 
Though  old  places  are  the  same,  yet  no  comrade 

speaks  his  name, 
Each  face  he  sees,  quick  passing  by,  is  strange. 

Friends,  relations,  dead  or  scattered,  all  the  past 

illusions  shattered, 

Loneliness  with  all  its  terror  fills  his  breast, 
All  in  life  that's  worth  bereft  him,  he  decides 

with  what  is  left  him 
To  buy  an  outbound  ticket  for  the  West. 


122 


THE   GRINGO'S   HOMECOMING. 

No    goodbyes,    nor    fond   leavetaking,   with    his 

heart  within  nigh  breaking, 
He  gazes  at  the  fast  receding  shore, 
No  ambitions  now  to  flame  him,  well  he  knows 

till  Death  doth  claim  him 
He'll  be  an  exiled  gringo  evermore. 


123 


SELECTIONS  FROM 
BALLADS  OF  A  GRINGO 


HOMESICK 

When  you  wake  up  at  dawn  with  a  weight  on 
your  chest 

And  you  gaze  to  the  East  though  your  trail  it 
lies  West, 

When  your  appetite's  gone  and  you  curse  with- 
out zest, — 
You're  homesick,poor  ^rrm^ro, you're  homesick. 


127 


MANANA 
(To-morrow) 

In  those  little  Repulics  down  south  of  the  Zone, 

Where  each  of  an  army  of  Generals  can  boast, 
Where  each  waits  a  pick  of  the  Treasury  bone, 

And  a  President  rules  for  a  week  at  the  most, 
From  the  moment  the  sun  tips  the  high  standing 
palm, 

And  the  first  note  is  chirped  by  the  earliest  bird, 
'Till  the  hour  when  the  luna  reigns  silent  and 

You  hear  e'er  repeated  one  spigetti1  word  .  .  . 
Mariana. 


jWord    used    to    signify    anything    native. 

128 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL 


A     000  031  629     9 


